Chains of Mist

by T. C. Metivier

“That is correct, my lord. I have seen the future in my dreams, and I see a man who must be cast from himself before he can achieve his destiny, who must pass through a trial of fire and shadow before he may become something greater. This sundering of soul from body will begin in the depths of Nembane Mountain…and its victim will be Justin Varenn.”

  A flash of irritation on the other’s face, quickly hidden. “I am not privy to your secret visions and dreams, nor have I spent my life exploring the corridors of the arcane and the prophetic. You must explain.”

  “Certainly, my lord. The sundering to which I refer is essential to my visions—without it, Varenn will surely fail, and none other can step up to take his place. It must be allowed to occur, and even more important it must seem as though we are trying to stop it from occurring. Somehow, our enemy remains ignorant of what his actions will set into motion. He is blinded by his own designs for Justin Varenn, and he must remain so. That is the Admiral’s true purpose on Espir, though he does not know it. His presence, and the presence of Forgera and Makree, will convince our enemy that we seek to foil his plan, thus ensuring that he does not deviate from that plan.”

  A long pause, as a keen mind digested and interpreted…and came to a realization. The reply, when it finally came, was spoken in a mixture of surprise, horror and awe. “So, you do not send the Admiral to Espir to save Justin Varenn, but to doom him. Because from his suffering may come our salvation.” A shake of the head, the blue eyes giving away nothing. “Many would call this callous, friend, but they do not know you like I do. I hope that I do not come to regret this…but I believe that you are only doing what must be done.”

  A nod of appreciation. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “You can thank me after this is over. For now, all I am doing is giving you the benefit of the doubt; I will let events unfold a little bit longer before I pass judgment on your actions.”

  “Regardless, that is more than I would have received—”

  The deep voice broke off in midsentence and the speaker half-turned his head towards the door. The other man heard nothing but knew that his own senses were not as adept as his companion’s. “They are coming, aren’t they?” he asked, unsurprised.

  “Well, what did you expect?” The touch of humor in the reply did not extend to the dark, depthless eyes. “You did just send the Supreme Allied Fleet Commander away to the far ends of the galaxy, chasing a man whom most of your subjects believe is dead. You can’t hide a story like this from the holonews teams; they always seem to know when news is about to happen.”

  “What I think you meant to say,” came the icy reply, “Was that you just sent the Supreme Allied Fleet Commander away. But whatever they are here for, it is not that. They cannot possibly know about that yet. And they will not find out. Am I clear?” The tone made it clear that, in this moment, they were no longer conversing as equals, but as King and subject.

  A sigh. “Of course, my lord. Would you like me to deal with them?”

  Frostily: “It is what you do best, is it not?”

  Another sigh. “Very well, my King.”

  -4-

  Roger stood in a tunnel of death. Bone fragments carpeted a rough stone floor, interspersed with long, black-scaled snakes with bright green eyes. Choking moss trailed like blood from the stone walls, undulating far more vigorously than any normal plant. A pale, pulsating light emanating from an unknown source illuminated the corridor, but it was too faint for Roger to see more than a few meters.

  Before him, the passage seemed to stretch on forever, into darkness interminable. Roger glanced over his shoulder and saw the same yawning abyss behind him as in front of him. He looked up, to see a low ceiling of similarly moss-infested stone.

  On all sides, the writhing moss grasped at him, extending tentacles to ensnare him. Irritably, he brushed them away. The light seemed to move as he did, and he realized that it was coming from his ring. A snake slithered against his bare foot, hissing hungrily at him, and he kicked it away in a rain of shattered bone. This only seemed to excite the others, and a veritable legion of serpents swarmed around his feet, their skin smooth and oily. For a moment, Roger wondered if they were poisonous, but dismissed the thought as irrelevant. What more could they possibly do to me? I’m probably dead anyways, or as good as.

  Another tendril of moss brushed against his head, rubbing tiny cilia against the base of his skull. The sensation was only mildly unpleasant, and Roger doubted that the moss could do him any more harm than the snakes. But I’m probably gonna be here for a while, so I might as well show this place who’s boss.

  So he reached up, grasped a solid fistful of moss, and yanked.

  With a hiss of air that sounded remarkably similar to a gasp of pain, the moss came free, accompanied by a shower of dust. Like a beached fish, the excised plant squirmed in Roger’s hand for a few seconds and then was still. Well, that worked out well, he thought as he tossed the dead moss aside.

  A tremor shook the corridor, nearly pitching Roger to the ground. Arms flailing, he managed to catch himself on the wall, ripping out another handful of moss in the process.

  Or, on the other hand, I might have just made it angry…

  The snakes hissed as one, and in a mass they slithered away as the tunnel shuddered a second time. Yeah, this isn’t gonna go well at all, thought Roger, crouching low to catch his balance. Maybe I should’ve thought that through just a little better.

  And from the darkness behind him, something growled.

  Still in his precarious crouching position, Roger brought one hand slowly around to where his par-gun should be, but his fingers brushed air. Figures. Well, I can either run for it, knowing I can’t escape, and die a coward, or I can meet my death like a man.

  The decision took less than a heartbeat. Roger Warbanks might be a lowlife, hunted by a dozen legal and illegal enterprises, and he might be a scoundrel, who looked out for himself first and others only third or fourth at best, but there was one thing he was not—a coward. I do not fear death.

  Slowly, he rose to his feet. He turned. Silver teeth glinted out at him in the near-darkness, illuminated by eyes of white flame. Three sets of teeth; three pairs of eyes. This day just keeps getting better and better, doesn’t it?

  One of the beasts took a half-step forward and growled once more, baring its fangs. Saliva dripped to the floor, burning through the shards of bone like acid.

  Roger stared the canine monstrosity straight in the eyes. “If you want me,” he snarled, “Then come and get me.”

  In unison, the beasts lunged—

  Roger brought his arms up, shielding his face, and braced for impact—

  The creatures hit him all at once and bore him to the ground. Immediately, mossy manacles sprang up to shackle his arms and legs. Snarling jaws snapped all around him, the demonic beasts all but fighting each other to be the first to get to him. Spittle sprayed down upon him.

  Resigned to death, yet still unafraid, Roger closed his eyes.

  When he opened them, he was staring up at a normal, star-lit sky. A cold, stale wind rustled his jacket, and a light rain sprinkled down on him. Shaking his head, he sat up and glanced around. He was back on Pattagax, back in the Grays. Piles of burning rubble were strewn everywhere, exactly as he remembered it, only everything seemed somehow…lighter…than before. The shadow-creature, whatever it was, was nowhere in sight.

  If it ever existed at all. I musta hit my head on something, dreamt the whole damn thing up. Roger, old boy, it’s definitely time to lay off the sauce…

  Shaking his head, he stood. The world spun before his eyes. Now this feeling I recognize. Definitely hit my head. The next few days are not going to be fun.

  As he gathered his bearings, a raindrop splashed against his left arm. And it hurt.

  Gasping, he clutched at the limb. What he saw made him forget the pain, stopping him dead in his tracks. Open slashes crisscrossed his forearm, oozing something green and viscous. As he watched, the wounds close
d over and the ichorous discharge vanished, leaving not even a single scar.

  Fires of Muntûrek…Could it have been…real?

  Roger felt a cold knot of unease in his chest. This whole endeavor was quickly becoming far more bizarre and real than he had bargained for. Whatever path I’m headed down, it’s a good bet that I’m gonna run into whatever that shadow thing was again—and next time, I doubt I’ll be lucky enough to get off so easy. That place it sent me to—that was a warning…and a damn effective one.

  So now what?

  Once again, Roger weighed his options. He could turn around right now and leave this whole business behind; he could get on his new ship and head for the other side of the galaxy. There were worlds he could go to that were beyond the reach or interest of both the Federation and the Coalition, where he could settle down and live…not in peace, maybe, but at least in less danger. He didn’t need his memories; at this point, surely he could be content with what he had, and not dwell on what he didn’t have. He could scrape out a life for himself and just forget this whole crazy business.

  Sounds nice. Safe. But also…boring…

  Let’s face it, if that was really the life I wanted I’d be a farmer right now on some remote rock near the Wilds. It’s not like there weren’t opportunities—I coulda played dead after the massacre at Athol’s Point, or when that explosion on Ellsain blew the city half to hell. No one woulda come looking—I coulda gotten out clean and free with no one any the wiser.

  But I didn’t. Because that would be giving up. Abandoning the search that has driven me all these years, the only purpose that I have ever known. I’m not the kind of guy who could ever be happy by just…living. I need more. I need to know the truth about myself…and, like it or not, dangerous or not, this is the place I’m going to find it.

  Whatever destiny Roger had stumbled upon, it was becoming increasingly clear that it was far larger and more dangerous than anything he had ever known. Even if he jumped onto the nearest ship and put a few thousand parsecs between himself and Pattagax, he had a feeling that his fate would still find him. After all, what were the odds that that shadow creature worried about such petty matters as interstellar distance when it tracked its prey? Sooner or later, it or something like it would decide that Roger had to die, and if he fled without learning why all this was happening to him he might as well be a blind kalasa-hawk against his hunter. Maybe if I cut off my finger and left that damned ring here on Pattagax I might be safe…but that’s a big if.

  I came here for answers. Time to get some.

  And he strode into the ruins.

  * * * *

  The body of the alien Fa’ix looked barely larger than a child’s, lying mangled and broken among the fire-scorched rubble. Her triangular head had collapsed in on itself like an overripe ara fruit, the prominent frontal bone a shattered ruin. Scales were sprinkled all around her like dead flowers, and puddles of blue liquid had welled up all along the alien’s pale skin. Her arms and legs, which before had been frail as sticks, had been reduced to bloody fragments of withered bone.

  Gazing upon the tiny, broken creature, Roger felt a wave of sadness sweep over him. Tears welled up in his eyes at the thought of this ancient being, already bent and battered by the toll of time, making a final heroic stand against the behemoth of shadow. She must have known that she would lose, yet she had met her enemy in battle nonetheless. One couldn’t help but mourn the passing of anyone with that kind of bravery. Roger knelt beside the fallen warrior, head bowed in somber silence.

  A hiss of air rattled from shattered lungs, and one of Fa’ix’s large, tawny eyes cracked open. Upon seeing Roger, she gave a feeble cough that might have been a laugh. “Greetings again, Roger Warbanks,” she gasped. “I am glad…to see you here—” Her voice broke down, and she spat up blue blood, her entire body shaking from that tiny exertion.

  Roger wasn’t sure what to say, and so he said nothing. Hell, what words could possibly be adequate at a moment like this?

  Fa’ix must have seen the sorrow in Roger’s eyes, for her mouth twitched in a painful smile. “Prophecy, Roger Warbanks…can act in strange ways… It gives…and takes…” Once again, her voice faded, and her ruined body shivered as her final breaths sighed out. “I pass the torch…of fate…to you…Roger Warbanks…I pass—” A violent spasm shook the alien, and her eyes opened wide with pain as she more blood dribbled through her cracked lips.

  “Don’t talk,” said Roger. His words sounded callous and crude in his ears, but he could think of none better. “Just—rest.”

  As if somehow freed by the sound of Roger’s voice, the alien’s coughing subsided, and she seemed to relax. A final whispering breath eased from shattered lungs.

  Then her eyes slipped closed, and she died.

  Frigid rain beat down, biting through Roger’s tough, well-worn spacer’s jacket. But he did not move, unable to tear his eyes away from the lifeless body beside him. Fa’ix looked surprisingly peaceful for a creature that must have died in agonizing pain, the stubs of her arms folded across her body like one of the ancient mummified rulers that Roger had seen in countless museums and temples across the galaxy. Her thin mouth was curled into the faintest hint of a contented smile.

  A crackle of lightning split the rain, followed by a rippling peal of thunder. Roger, shuddering from something that had nothing to do with the weather, lowered the lifeless form to the ground. It seemed almost blasphemous for her final resting place to be an abandoned street, surrounded by nothing but shattered stones and piles of trash and other debris; surely such a warrior deserved a better funeral than this. But at the same time, something about it felt right, as if it shouldn’t be any other way. A fighter laid to rest at the site of her final battle, surrounded by the markers of that struggle. This whole place is a memorial of what has happened, immortalizing forever what has transpired tonight.

  Rest in peace.

  Shaking rain from his hair, Roger stood and turned around.

  And sensed that he was not alone.

  * * * *

  The presence Roger felt was benevolent, as day to the night of the shadow creature that had attacked him. Good thing, too, ‘cuz it definitely caught me with my guard down. Stupid! he berated himself. Benign or not, this arrival was still an unknown quantity, and Roger’s instincts took over. Like lightning, he flashed over to the single standing wall, pressing his back against it. Staying low, he brought the par-gun that he had drawn without conscious thought around in a wide arc, sweeping over the overlapping shadows. Not that a gun will probably do me much good here, but old habits die hard, after all. “Show yourself!”

  The voice that came back was gentle and soothing, like a quiet stream flowing through a peaceful field. “Calm yourself, friend. Lower your weapon, and let us speak face to face, like civilized men.”

  Yeah right, pal. Not on your life. “I think I’ll keep my gun right where it is, thanks.”

  There was a moment of silence. Then: “Very well.”

  And a man emerged from the shadows.

  The newcomer was aged and wizened, his sparse form wrapped in a brown traveler’s cloak. Iron-gray hair that reached to his shoulders framed his wrinkled face, and his skin was like weathered parchment. Eyes of silver regarded Roger with a kindly yet stern gaze, and Roger saw power in those eyes. Power…but also weariness. Time’s taken its toll, that’s for sure. Still, he would wager even money that the old man was still strong enough to take on E’turol D’mact’s whole organization by himself.

  The old man spoke again, his gaze unblinking. “My name is Talan. You are wise to be cautious, friend. Evil hunts us, and it can take many guises. Rarely will our foes be as…overt…as they were tonight.”

  Roger forced himself to fight through the calming power of the old man’s voice. For all his fine talk and grandfatherly appearance, he’s still a wild card. You should never turn your back on someone with that much power. “You knew her?” he asked, nodding at the body.

 
“As well as allowed,” replied Talan. “I wish it could have turned out otherwise; I wish that the Keeper here could have lived longer…there will come times when we will sorely need her counsel. Alas, our paths were only meant to cross briefly…and I was unable to save her from the creatures of the enemy.”

  Roger shuddered at the memory. “Yeah, that thing looked like it could tear through a whole army without stopping to think about it.”

  The silver eyes narrowed. “You…saw it?”

  “Yeah, I saw it,” Roger said. “Worse, it saw me.”

  “You must be mistaken,” said the old man, though Roger heard the hesitation in his voice and saw that he doubted his own words. “If it had seen you, it would have destroyed you.”

  “Hey, I know what happened,” Roger shot back. “It jumped me, sent me to some weird tunnel of snakes and bones and moss, then I got attacked by something, woke up back here, and it was gone. You can believe me or not—I don’t really care. But that’s what happened.”

  The old man considered this for a few moments. “Then you have just been the recipient of an extreme stroke of good fortune. I have never before heard of anyone surviving an encounter with that creature. I would suggest you do not squander this opportunity.”

  “Oh, believe me, I don’t intend to,” Roger said. “So, uh—Talan, was it? Is there something I can help you with, or do you just like to watch people from the shadows?”

  Talan raised his eyebrows, a hint of a smile playing across his lips. “What do you think, Roger Warbanks?” he asked softly.

  Roger found himself utterly unsurprised that Talan knew his name. At this point, he was beginning to wonder if everyone on Pattagax knew who he was. “I think you should start talking. The last time I was here, Fa’ix there was talking a whole lot about fate and destiny and ancient prophecies. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but I’m starting to think she might’ve been on to something. And you look like the kind of guy who might know a thing or two about this. Since I can’t ask her, I guess that means you’re up. So, pal, what else can you tell me about this destiny of mine?”